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baby blues were locked on her emerald green eyes, which her makeup artist enhanced with a dot of fuchsia shadow in the inner corner.
    "My three favorite ex-girlfriends look drop-dead beautiful tonight," he explained, moving in for a kiss.
    Before she could stop the inevitable, her bodyguard took a menacing step forward to manhandle Dean Paul's arm.
    "It's okay, Baby Bear," Gabrielle assured him. "He's an old friend."
    Shocked, and more than a little pissed off, Dean Paul twisted out of Baby Bear's grasp and shook his arm free. "Jesus, Gabby, do you really need this storm trooper? At my wedding?"
    Gabby. He was the only person in the world who had ever called her that. Hearing it again unleashed a flood of bittersweet memories. She made a promise to keep that train of thought at bay, then whispered to Baby Bear, asking him to stay in sight but to give them some space.
    With a dutiful nod, Baby Bear retreated.
    As a peace offering, Gabrielle leaned forward and did precisely what Baby Bear had prevented Dean Paul from doing, planting a brief but intimate kiss on the lips. "I'm sorry. He travels with me everywhere. Sometimes the fan situation gets out of control. And lately there have been threats."
    Dean Paul's forehead creased. "Death threats?"
    Gabrielle nodded.
    His focus was on her like a laser now. "There are security firms to investigate situations like that."
    She reached out to touch his forearm, her flashy pinkie ring clinking against his Tiffany and Co. cufflink. "It's being handled. There's an extreme right-wing group that thinks my lyrics are a danger to children. All bark, no bite. But still, you can't ignore these things entirely."
    He stepped back to take all of her in, placing his hands on her upper arms, his long, perfectly manicured fingers digging into the luxurious pelts of her Louis Feraud mink. "Don't take this the wrong way. You look fantastic. But what happened to the girl I remember?"
    "She's long gone," Gabrielle said. "This is the new and improved version." One beat. "Brown Sugar. And it tastes so sweet."
    Dean Paul's eyes flashed with desire.
    That's when Gabrielle gently flicked off his hands from her arms. "But you're a married man. Besides, I don't think you could handle it."
    He laughed a little. "You're being a bad girl, Gabby. What are you trying to do to me? This is my wedding day."
    Gabby. The sound of it played tricks with her mind again.
    Dean Paul intercepted a passing waiter for a glass of champagne, which he gallantly offered to Gabrielle. "Here. Drink this. It's the expensive stuff, Queen Bling. You'll approve."
    She accepted the crystal flute and drank deep, never averting her gaze, the slight smile on her lips matching his. Obviously, he was aware of her new CD.
    Dean Paul shook his head. "I need a drink. You and your hot box are too much for me. Cool down. We'll talk later." He gave her a final, sexually regretful once-over before swaggering off.
    Gabrielle watched him go, letting the surprise sink in. Judging from his clever little reference, he was more aware of her than she ever imagined. "My Hot Box" was a smoking track on the new album. In fact, it was being geared up to follow "How Many Carats" and "Check His Credit" as the third single from Queen of Bling. AKA Bomb Threat was in the studio now, punching it up with a new remix that would feature a guest rap appearance by the ubiquitous Nicki Minaj. Next week, Gabrielle would meet with video directors to go over creative concepts.
    "Too bad he's not a groomsman," Babe said, sidling up, watching Gabrielle watch Dean Paul. "It's so easy to get laid by one of them at these things."
    Together, they stood silently, enjoying the view as Dean Paul kindly and gracefully engaged an effeminate teenage boy who was clearly smitten and starstruck.
    "He's difficult to hate, isn't he?" Babe observed.
    "Impossible," Gabrielle said.
    Babe regarded her for a moment with a sweeping up-and-down glance. "You're not exactly trying to fly under the